


universal law (i need you)

by see_addy_write



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 05:46:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18492607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/see_addy_write/pseuds/see_addy_write
Summary: A two-part fic based on the dialogue prompts: “Everything you think I need isn’t what I need. What I need is you.” and “Please, be gentle with me. I’ll break if you aren’t careful enough.”Part I: Michael wants to help, but Alex has to use his words.Part II:Because while everything else has changed, his feelings for Michael Guerin are still as deep and passionate as ever, and Alex can’t enjoy it. He tries, God, he tries. But every time he thinks he can do it, when he’s confident in his own ability to be what Michael needs, something sparks that same anxiety that has sent him running a hundred times before.





	1. Part I: Michael

**Author's Note:**

> hi again. 
> 
> i wrote the first part of this not thinking it would turn into much -- just another short, angsty fic amongst the MANY in the Malex fandom. it ended up turning into a look at Alex's mind and why he keeps pushing Michael away, and Michael making Alex actually use his words, which everyone could benefit from! 
> 
> please heed the tags; self-care is important, guys. i don't think anything here is TOO detailed, but i want you all to be safe. 
> 
> i'm seeaddywrite on tumblr. feel free to come chat, flail, or send me prompts :)

Michael has no idea how to help Alex on bad days. The airman had been right, when he came to the trailer and pointed out that they don’t really know each other – they’ve never spent a lot of time talking. As teenagers, they had to sneak around to spend time together, and there were far more interesting things to do. And then, well – after that, there was never enough time. They’ve been better about it lately, while trying to learn how to be friends, but Michael still doesn’t know how Alex lost his leg, or what to do when the other man turns pale and withdrawn in the middle of the Wild Pony during a particularly raucous bar fight. 

The crowd is thick and loud around them, talking and laughing as Max’s coworkers haul the two combatants out the front door. Everyone else sitting around their table returns to their conversations; Liz is leaning against Max’s shoulder, laughing at something he murmured in her ear, while Isobel and Kyle Valenti toss verbal barbs back and forth across their beers. And all the while, Alex seems to get smaller and smaller, pulling into himself and 

It blows his mind that no one else seems to notice how Alex has pulled away from the conversation and looks like he’s about to puke. He smiles and nods along when he’s forced, but Michael can see the facade, and the way it seems to slip lower with each passing second. He glances at Liz, hiding it with a long drag from his beer bottle. She’s one of Alex’s best friends; surely, she’d notice Alex’s tension? The way none of his smiles reach his eyes, or the slight trembling in his fingers when he forgets to grip the bottle in his hands tightly enough to hide it? 

But even if Liz knows Alex well enough to pick up on the signs that he’s so good at hiding, she’s too lost in Max to notice tonight. He almost wishes he could be that oblivious … but for the past two months of friendship with Alex, he’s made a study of the man’s tells and nonverbal cues. He has an intimate knowledge of the slope of his shoulders and the lines in his face, and can close his eyes and picture exactly the way Alex looks when he’s relaxed and smiling. It’s a little pathetic, he supposes, his inability to look away from Alex. It’s been made clear, time and time again, that Alex doesn’t want Michael as anything more than a friend, and friends definitely don’t do that sort of thing. But there’s no switch to flip, no way to force himself to let go of the feelings he’s had since the day he stole Alex’s guitar from the music room, and Michael doesn’t think he’d do it, even if he could. 

“Alex?” No one else is going to do anything, and Michael is physically incapable of watching Alex struggle alone right in front of him. “Hey, you good, man?” He keeps his voice quiet, and leans forward so that only the intended recipient of his whisper will hear. Michael knows enough of who Alex is to know that he wouldn’t want attention brought to the faraway look in his eyes, and he certainly wouldn’t want anyone fussing over him. So, uncertain as he is, Michael shoves his own chair between the others and Alex, shielding him from view with the bulk of his body, and tentatively reaches out to brush his fingertips against the back of Alex’s hand in an effort to get his attention. 

A full-body flinch is the response, and Michael yanks his hand back as Alex finally turns his head to look at him, the motion jerky. Awkward silence falls between them, even as someone turns the music back up on the jukebox in the corner, and Michael rubs at the back of his neck uncertainly. “You want to get out of here?” he asks finally, after another minute of staring, wherein it seems like Alex is trying to say something without opening his mouth, and all Michael can worry about it overstepping one of the many lines that have been drawn between them. 

The responding nod is immediate, if a little uncoordinated. They didn’t come together, but Michael doesn’t think he can just walk Alex to his car and watch him drive off like this. What if he’s too distracted to drive safely? What if there’s something really wrong, and he shouldn’t be left alone? There are too many questions and Michael’s too chicken-shit to ask for the answers. He’s been shoved out of Alex’s life so many times that he’s still recovering from the whiplash, and Michael doesn’t know if he can take another round. But Alex is looking at him with something bordering desperation in his familiar, dark gaze, and Michael isn’t soulless enough to let that look go unanswered. 

“Guys, I’m gonna call it a night,” Michael announces to their assembled friends, standing up from his chair and shoving it back into place beneath the table. 

“Michael Guerin, calling it a night after one drink?” Isobel teases, lifting her lined eyes to his. “No way! Stay here and drink with us!” She’s already pretty drunk, judging by the way her speech slurs and she doesn’t make a single disparaging remark about the bar. Max is going to have a hell of a time getting her home, but he’s got Liz and Valenti for backup, and it’s not like she doesn’t deserve to try to drink her sorrows away after everything she’s been through in the past few months. 

“I’ll see you for dinner at your place tomorrow,” he promises her, leaning forward to brush his lips to the top of her hair. Michael glances at Max while she can’t see him, and his brother nods once, a resigned quirk of his lips obvious only to those who knew him well. He’s as worried about Isobel as Michael is, but nothing but time is going to heal the wounds that Noah left in their sister, and for now, Alex is a more pressing concern. 

He turns back to the other man after he finishes his goodbyes. He’s still pale, but seems to have pulled himself together enough to wave at the others. Then, Alex gestures down at his leg with a small sigh, glancing at Michael and then away, like he’s ashamed of something. “Think you could give me a hand?” The question is quiet and a little strained, but hearing Alex’s voice relaxes Michael a little. At least if he’s still talking, things can’t be that bad. Can they?

Without a word, Michael holds out his hands. Months ago, he would’ve just grabbed him by the waist and pulled him up, relishing in the proximity of their bodies. But things are different now, and the only way he touches Alex now is if the other man makes the first overture. He doesn’t have to wait long; Alex’s shaking fingers wrap around Michael’s steady hands, and he pulls him up out of the chair, automatically taking his weight when he stumbles. Vaguely, Michael hears Max and Liz asking if they need help, but he just waves them off and makes sure Alex is steady before starting toward the entrance of the bar. They’ll have plenty of questions to answer when they face their friends again, and most of them will probably be annoying and nosy, but that’s a problem for later. 

The moment they’re outside, Alex stops pretending that he’s supporting himself and slumps against Michael’s chest in a rare show of vulnerability. His cheek rests against the top of Michael’s shoulder, Alex’s rapid breath making the side of his neck feel humid and sending a ticklish thrill down his spine. “Hey,” Michael murmurs, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with his hands, now. He can’t let go without worrying that Alex will fall, but part of him is afraid that the longer he holds on, the harder it will be when he has to let go. “You okay?” 

Alex’s responding chuckle is mirthless. “You already know the answer to that,” he says, the strain of holding casual conversation obvious in his voice. 

Michael doesn’t bother to deny it. “You checked out on us during that fight. You faked it pretty well for a while, but I – I could tell something was wrong.” It’s as close to asking what’s going on in Alex’s head as he’s going to get. “You want me to take you home? Maria won’t let anyone tow your SUV.” Talking so nonchalantly is harder than it should be with Alex’s warmth seeping into him. This is the closest they’ve been since they had sex before that night at the drive-in, and Michael wants to bury his head in the sand and pretend that the proximity isn’t just because Alex is looking for any port in a storm. 

“I can –”

“If you’re about to try to tell me you can drive home, save it. I know you’re a badass, okay? I know you can take care of yourself, and you don’t want me around when you feel like shit because we’re just friends, or whatever your problem is this time. But your hands are shaking, and I’m not letting you drive until I’m sure you’re going to make it the whole way out to that cabin safely.” God, why is it so fucking hard for Alex to let Michael help, just a little? He’s not asking to spend the night! He just wants to make sure he’s safe. Are they really on such bad terms now that he can’t care at all? 

There’s a beat of silence. “I was just going to say that I can send her a text tomorrow and ask her to have someone drive it to the cabin,” Alex says, so quietly that Michael can barely hear it. His entire body has gone rigid, and before Michael can figure out what the problem is, he’s pulling away to stand on his own. “I’d appreciate the ride. If you don’t mind.” 

The formality makes Michael want to rip his hair out of his head, but he bites back a snappish reply and just nods to his truck, parked almost directly in front of them. He wants to ask if Alex can get in on his own; he seems awfully unsteady on his feet, still, and Michael assumes that something has gone wrong with his bad leg, but again, the questions just turn into a lump in his throat. Alex manages on his own, though, rendering that a moot point, so Michael walks around and climbs into the driver’s side silently. 

Neither of them speak for the first ten minutes. Alex spends the time with his hands curled into fists on his thighs, his face pale and drawn in the moonlight that shines through the windshield. He doesn’t seem to be any better now that they’ve left the bar, which Michael had hoped would be enough. But it isn’t, and he’s not able to just leave things this way. “What happened?” he asks finally, the question shattering the tense silence. 

“The guy Hank punched fell on me,” Alex answers abruptly, the words short and terse. “Just for a minute. But my damn leg has been aching all day, and he jolted the prosthetic. It hurts, and I don’t – I can’t –” His breath is coming so rapidly that it sounds like he’s panting, and Michael looks toward him, ready to pull over as soon as Alex gives him a reason. “I panic, sometimes. When it hurts. It’s stupid, and there’s no fucking reason for it, but -”

Michael thinks he gets it. Sometimes, when his hand spasms in the middle of the night, he wakes up sure that Jesse Manes is in the trailer with him. It always takes some time for his heart to stop racing, after that, and he never quite manages to fall back to sleep. Alex’s trauma is so much worse; it doesn’t surprise him that the same thing might happen in his case without the added disorientation of sleep. “Panic doesn’t usually need a reason,” he says evenly. “Anything I can do to help?” 

They’re pulling into Alex’s driveway now, and Michael can practically see his chance to be with Alex and actually do something to help slipping away. Alex will go inside to lick his wounds privately, and Michael will be left on the other side of the door, waiting and wondering and wishing, until he’s forced to give up and leave. 

As soon as the engine turns off, Michael finds himself locked in a staring contest with Alex, who’s eyes have that same desperate and expectant look in them from back at the bar. Michael returns the look helplessly, wordlessly conveying that he doesn’t know what Alex wants or needs from him. “Alex –” 

There’s no time to finish the thought before the other man has his hands in a death grip, clutching so tightly that Michael can feel his fingernails break skin. It makes his bad hand ache a little, but that’s not nearly a good enough reason to pull away from Alex. In fact, Michael could have been bleeding out, and he would’ve still held Alex’s hand. “Don’t make me ask, Guerin.” The whisper catches him by surprise, and Michael’s mouth closes with a surprised snap. “Please?”

“Isobel’s the mind reader, Alex,” he retorts, a hint of defensiveness running through the words despite his best efforts. “I can’t just look in your head to figure out if you need space, or a ride, or hand to hold, or whatever it is you’re angling for right now. You’ve gotta actually say it.”

Alex sighs, and shakes his head. “Everything you think I need isn’t what I need,” he says, and for the first time in the last hour, his gaze is steady. “I mean, maybe the handholding thing would be nice, but I’ve had so much space lately that I can’t stand it. This isn’t going to get any better, Michael.” His fingers tremble around Michael’s hands, and wordlessly, Michael reverses them, so that he’s holding Alex’s clasped palms between both of his, keeping them still. Alex stares down at their entwined hands for a long moment, biting at his lower lip, as if he can’t decide how to finish, or how much he should say. 

“I’ve been trying to stay away from you until I get my head together, because I don’t know that I can be what you need, right now. And it’s not fair for me to keep running away every time you help me keep it together. I’m a fucking mess, and I don’t – Jesus, Michael, some days I can’t even get out of bed. What kind of man does that? What kind of boyfriend could I be? But – I think, maybe – what I need is you. If there’s even still a chance of that.” 

Michael just stares at Alex for a long moment, trying to put that speech and its ramifications into the boundaries and lines drawn between him and Alex. It doesn’t fit, it doesn’t make sense – but it does, at the same time. Because of course Alex thinks he’s a mess. Of course Alex has been struggling since he lost his leg. It’s so ingrained in Alex to think that’s he’s the problem, that his issues are an inconvenience thanks to his fucked-up, psychopathic father – and Michael should have known that. He should have been here a long time ago, rather than sulking about his broken heart. 

But he’s here now, and he can’t change the past. 

“Ask me,” he says, bringing Alex’s hands up to press his lips to shaking fingers. “Just ask, Alex.”

Uncertainty wars with hope in Alex’s eyes, and Michael wants to reassure him, to tell him to forget the words, and just take him inside and wrap him up in his arms, if that’s what Alex wants. But there’s a chasm between them, put there by years of mistakes and harsh words on both sides, and Michael needs to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what Alex’s expectations are. What he wants. Because if he fucks this up now, Michael doesn’t know if he’ll be able to come back from it. 

“Stay,” Alex says finally, his voice cracking. “Just – _stay_.” His hands break free of Michael’s and scrabble at his shoulders in an attempt to pull him closer, or maybe hold him there, like he’s afraid the word will send him running. And Michael doesn’t hesitate; he leans awkwardly over the center console and hugs Alex tightly, ignoring the damn thing as it pushes into his side. 

“You’re okay,” he promises, one hand cradling the back of Alex’s head while the man burrows into the space between his shoulder and neck, his entire body trembling. “Just breathe, Alex. I’m not going anywhere.” 

There’s more to be said, he knows, but Michael isn’t cruel enough to make Alex spell it all out tonight. He got what he needed; for now, he’s going to give Alex what he asked for. And maybe, when all’s said and done, they can keep each other from falling apart.


	2. Part II: Alex

The thing that no one tells a stupid kid about to enlist isn’t that going to war fucks you up — everyone knows that. It’s broadcast through the media, in television shows and romance novels, and hell, there are even commercials about vets with post-traumatic stress disorder. As a kid, Alex was privy to the more intimate details of what that looks like; he’s pretty sure Jesse Manes wasn’t born with a mindset that allowed breaking his own son’s bones. That, Alex figures, came from what he did to survive during his own tours of duty.

Alex doesn’t like to admit that he’s got anything in common with the psychopath who fathered him, but it’s hard to ignore, lately. As a kid, despite the constant fear that his own father was going to go too far and actually kill him one day, Alex was pretty optimistic. He had plans — leaving Roswell came first, followed by pursuing a music career in a real city, without the small minds that came from small town living. Later, it had been finding a gorgeous, guitar-playing guy to create a life with far, far away from his family and the insanity that seems to run rampant in their genes. Because young Alex wasn’t like his father, or his grandfather, or even his oldest brother. He was sane, and he wasn’t going to get sucked into the violence and rigidity of a military existence chasing aliens.

Military service changed all of that. Some of it for the better — Alex isn’t stupid enough to say that there was nothing good about his time in the Air Force. Enlisting showed him the aptitude he hadn’t known he had for computers, had introduced him to some of his closest friends, and given him the skills and courage he needed to realize that Jesse Manes wasn’t nearly as powerful as he liked his children to think. He’s proud of his service.

Unfortunately, pride isn’t enough to stop him from realizing that not all of his internal changes were positive ones. Some days, when he looks in the mirror, all he can see is the negative — how the circles beneath his eyes tell everyone of his newly complicated relationship with sleep, and how the crutch he leans on constantly denotes weakness to anyone who looks at him. But, more than the physical, Alex hates the emotional changes from who he used to be. Anxiety has become an inconstant companion, coming and going as it pleases and leaving him shaking and pale for no external reason. Even when he’s feeling stable, it’s so much harder to feel excited, or even content. Every happy moment is constantly overshadowed by the question of when it will end, and Alex loathes that more than anything.

Because while everything else has changed, his feelings for Michael Guerin are still as deep and passionate as ever, and Alex can’t enjoy it. He tries, God, he tries. But every time he thinks he can do it, when he’s confident in his own ability to be what Michael needs, something sparks that same anxiety that has sent him running a hundred times before. Michael kisses him at the reunion? Alex panics when Isobel Evans might find out. Michael takes him on an actual date, in public, and stares at him with obvious affection, uncaring of who can see — Alex lets his father get under his skin and hurts Michael enough that he can actually see the heartbreak in his eyes. One would think that after all that, Michael would punch Alex when he comes around, asking questions about his past and who he is, but the other man still lets him in … and, yet again, despite his intentions, Alex runs away as soon as he realizes there’s a chance that Michael might abandon him. It’s a miracle that Michael doesn’t seem to hate him even now; God knows that Alex hates himself.

It’s a cycle he can’t break, and Alex is resigned to the fact that he’s not meant to figure it out. He works alongside Michael and the others, helping them fight back against Project Shepherd and his father as his penance, trying to show Michael how much he means to him without trampling all over his heart, but some days, he aches with wanting the other man’s arms around him. On the hard days, when he hurts to much to wear his prosthetic and can’t leave his house, or when he’s curled on the bathroom floor, gasping through the aftermath of a nightmare and trying to ground himself with the stupid techniques his military-appointed shrink assigned him before deeming him fit for duty, Alex always has to resist calling Michael. He knows he would come. Of course he would. It’s like a law of the universe: whenever Alex needs him, Michael Guerin comes. So Alex can’t ask, can’t need him, because he’s got nothing to give back.

So the night that the guy Maria has nicknamed ‘Racist Hank’ punches a guy and sends him sprawling into Alex’s bad leg while he’s spending some time with the others outside of working and running for their lives, Alex sucks it up when the immediate throb in his residual limb sends him spiraling. Pain doesn’t always have this effect on him; Alex’s usually as calm and competent with pain management as he is with hacking. But every ache in that leg sends him straight back to Baghdad, to the crash and the adrenaline, to waking up in a German hospital to find himself missing a limb – 

Alex cuts off that line of thinking quickly. It’s not quite a panic attack, not yet, though he knows that if he doesn’t get a handle on himself, it’ll become one. He’s gotten good at hiding his weaknesses behind a mask of competency and detachment, and it works that night, too. Liz glances at him once, from where she leans against Max’s arm, but she only flashes him a smile. Michael, though – Michael’s eyes, as always, track his every movement, and seem to know way too much. Alex does his best to ignore the fog creeping into his mind and the way his fingers shake when he releases the beer bottle in his hands. He keeps up with the conversation around the table for a few minutes, nodding when Isobel declares that they all need more drinks, and smiling woodenly when Max kisses Liz on the mouth – but soon, he can’t manage it. It takes all of his focus to stay seated, to keep his stomach from overturning. His leg aches, though Alex can’t be sure that it’s a physical pain, and he’s desperate to leave before his heart beats out of his chest and shows everyone what a coward he is. 

Salvation comes in Michael’s quiet voice. “Hey, you good, man?” 

Alex wants to answer. He simultaneously wants to insist that he’s fine and walk out of the bar under his own power and to burrow into Michael’s arms and hide there until he can breathe normally again. Fuck. He flinches at Michael’s calloused hand on his, and guilt at the way the other man yanks his hand back as if stung adds itself to the heap of negative emotion in his head. 

Michael doesn’t say anything about that, though. Those uncannily perceptive eyes just watch him as Alex struggles to find his voice, to find any words to get him out of this situation – 

And again, Michael saves him. “You want to get out of here?”

Alex’s answering nod is desperate, and he’s not sure he cares. His breath is starting to stutter, and it’s going to become impossible to maintain any sort of dignity if he starts hyperventilating in the middle of Maria’s bar. After all of his hard work to show his friends that he’s fine, that he came back from war with all of his faculties, and that they don’t need to worry about him, that would definitely be a blow to his pride. And at this point, Alex feels like pride is one of the few things he’s got left. 

Michael turns around to talk to the others; Alex doesn’t know what he says, but when the other man turns around expectantly, he finds himself stuck in the chair. The low-level ache in his leg is still there, and he doesn’t want to stand – he’s not sure he could, even, without help. So, swallowing past the lump in his throat, he waves at his leg in vague explanation and asks hoarsely, “Think you could give me a hand?” 

He’s expecting Michael to haul him out of the chair, and part of him is excited for the prospect – it gives him an excuse to let Michael hold him together, if only for the few minutes it takes to make it out the door. But instead, Michael just puts his hands out and waits. 

It’s harder than he’d like to reach out and take the offer. It’s stupid, since Alex is the one who asked for help, but this – this feels like he’s asking for too much, admitting to weakness. But Alex reaches out anyway, because he can’t fall apart in the middle of the Pony, and he trusts Michael. 

They make it out the door pretty quickly after Alex throws a half-hearted wave at the rest of their friends, and he all but falls into Michael’s chest when they’re alone on the dark street. Alex presses his face into Michael’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and motor oil and laundry detergent like it’s smelling salts or something. It works – or maybe it’s just the warmth of Michael’s body, and the sturdiness of his muscles, holding Alex up while he can’t quite manage it alone. 

“Hey,” Michael’s voice is low, and Alex can feel it rumble through his chest. “You okay?” 

Alex chuckles, and knows the sound isn’t a happy one. “You already know the answer to that.” His voice sounds raspy, like he’s been screaming – and Alex supposes he has, though the noise has all been internal. 

“You checked out on us during that fight. You faked it pretty well for a while, but I – I could tell something was wrong.” Of course he could. Michael’s always been able to read Alex so, so well. “You want me to take you home? Maria won’t let anyone tow your SUV.” The offer sounds so good that Alex’s exhales in relief, his pounding heart easing slightly at just the thought of being in a safe, isolated place with Michael. 

“I can –” But Michael doesn’t let him finish, and the accusation that Alex is trying to push him away again, to insist that he’s fine when it’s blatantly obvious that he’s falling apart at the seams, stings. He goes rigid as his lungs stop cooperating, and he yanks himself out of Michael’s embrace, nearly tumbling down to the sidewalk when his weight is put back on the prosthetic. He catches his balance, though, and looks at Michael even when he’d rather avert his gaze. 

“I was just going to say that I can send her a text tomorrow and ask her to have someone drive it to the cabin,” he tells Michael in a soft voice. “I’d appreciate the ride. If you don’t mind.” It sounds like every too-polite interaction they’ve had over the last few months, since Alex insisted they be friends, and maybe that’s what Michael wants. The way he stomps over to the driver’s seat of the truck doesn’t really seem to support that theory, but Alex ignores it and clambers into the other seat, biting down hard on his cheek when he’s forced to use the prosthetic to push himself into the cab. 

Once inside, Alex sits with his hands clenched on his thighs to keep himself from reaching out to Michael as a way to anchor himself. His breath is once again coming too quickly, and he has to keep his mouth shut, because he’s not sure what embarrassing things would fall out of it, otherwise. But Michael isn’t content with the silence, and Alex ends up telling him what happened at the bar, about the panic that creeps up on him sometimes for no real reason. He expects to be swamped with embarrassment, but Michael’s calm assertion that panic doesn’t always need a reason keeps the mortification at bay. 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

The casual question, the offer insinuated within it so easily, makes Alex’s eyes sting. There are a thousand things he could say, each of them dismissive and right, because he has no business dragging Michael into the shitshow that is his life right now, not again. But he can’t stop himself from grabbing at Michael’s hands as soon as the engine turns off in front of the cabin, even when he realizes that the strength of his grip is probably hurting him. He stares intently into Guerin’s eyes, letting him see pat the walls and the facade and into the swirling anxiety and desperation that’s doubling as his mind. 

But letting him in isn’t enough. Michael wants the words, and Alex doesn’t know if he can give him that. “Don’t make me ask,” he begs in a whisper. _Don’t make me admit it. Just - please be gentle with me. I’ll break if you’re not careful enough, and if you put me back together, I’ll never be able to let you leave._

Alex doesn’t know if Michael’s being stubborn, or if he’s finally hit the point of no return with the man – maybe this is when he’s going to get shoved out of Michael’s life, instead of the other way around. He’d deserve it, he knows he would. But he says the words anyway, when pushed, spilling all of his anxieties and unwanted desires when Michael points out that he’s not a mind-reader. His hands shake harder than ever as he speaks, but there are strong fingers supporting them, clasping them against Michael’s chest and holding him steady, so Alex gets through it. 

When Michael whispers against his hair that he’ll stay, that Alex is okay, the latter gives up and weeps openly into the strong shoulder beneath him. The embrace is exactly what he needs in that moment, strong and gentle, warm and soft, with Michael’s ridiculous curls tickling his damp cheeks. Alex isn’t ashamed to admit that he clings, his fingers scrabbling against the collar of Michael’s button-down shirt to get at skin. 

“Easy,” Michael murmurs again, and there’s a hand against his back, rough fingers stroking along Alex’s spine. “I’ve got you.” It’s impossible to disbelieve him like this, with their chests pressed together to tightly that Alex can feel Michael’s heartbeat against his own. He nods jerkily, his own hands finally giving up on the buttons and sliding down Michael’s sides to delve under the fabric and press against the flat, strong planes of his stomach. While normally he’d be appreciating the other man’s physique, this time, it’s all about the warmth and comfort another man’s skin against his brings. 

“You ready to go inside?” Michael asks, an indeterminable amount of time later. Alex’s breathing has returned to normal, and his hands no longer shake – and, most importantly, he can think straight again. 

He nods once, starting to disentangle himself from Michael. The look in the other man’s eyes makes him pause, though, and Alex raises an eyebrow. “You said you’d stay,” he says plaintively, when it’s clear that Michael’s questioning his welcome in Alex’s home. “I’m hoping you meant longer than half an hour. Especially since I spent most of that time ruining your shirt.” Alex jerks his chin at the wet patch on the shoulder of Michael’s flannel, his ears feeling hot with shame. 

“That what you want?” Michael asks, and there’s a wariness in his voice that makes Alex furious with himself all over again. If he hadn’t left before, over and over again, Michael wouldn’t need to ask that question. He would trust Alex the first time – but that’s Alex’s cross to bear. 

“You’re what I want,” Alex says firmly, catching Michael’s good hand in his again. He’s learned his lesson tonight about verbalizing what he wants, and while he fully anticipates forgetting it the next day for his dignity’s sake, tonight, he’s willing to keep talking if it proves to Michael that he’s serious. “I want you to stay with me tonight. In my bed. And tomorrow, too, if you want – you might change your mind, because I don’t sleep worth a damn much, anymore – but yeah, Michael. That’s what I want.” He catches his lower lip between his teeth, chewing at it uncertainly before adding, “Please?” 

Michael leans back and unlocks the truck’s doors, then disappears outside for a long minute. Alex’s heart begins to pound as he realizes that he might have just been rejected – but before he can figure it out, Michael’s back, on his side of the vehicle this time, and opens the door. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast,” he says, once both of Alex’s feet are on the ground, and he staring up at Michael, hopeful and confused all at once. “C’mon, Alex,” he finishes, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that, like you don’t already know the answer. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me to stay for ten years – you can’t really think I’d say ‘no,’ now.” 

Alex’s eyelids fall closed for a moment in pure, unadulterated relief, and once again, he tucks himself into Michael’s arms, trusting that he’d hold him upright. Because, there it was in action, the single law of their universe: whenever Alex needs him, Michael Guerin is always there.


End file.
